


The Assignment

by a_professional_fangirl



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Assassin Pairs, Assassination, Assassins & Hitmen, Comfort/Angst, Dystopian New York, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Bad At Writing Conversations, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Torture, Light Angst, My First AO3 Post, POV Third Person Limited, Platonic Life Partners, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Present Tense, Telepathic Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 13:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3731356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_professional_fangirl/pseuds/a_professional_fangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young man, forced into a life of killing, wrestles with his inner feelings of guilt while preparing for the particularly important task of assassinating the Vice Chancellor on the orders of the government. Luckily his partner is there to offer solace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Assignment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Queenie_Mab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queenie_Mab/gifts).



> This work is dedicated to Queenie_Mab because his/her amazing writing and commitment inspire me and motivate me to write. Thank you!

The raven haired boy adjusts the enhancement brace around his right arm. His hands, wearing supple leather gloves, roam over his weapons belt, checking his stash. He usually relies on blades to do his work silently for him, seeing as how the sound of gunfire is the equivalent of waving a red flag in the air and screaming, considering his job. _If that’s what you’d call it when you were forced into it,_ he adds mentally. He adds a dagger to each boot for good measure, sliding them flat against his calves. Better safe than sorry. As he looks back up, his eyes land on the inside of his left forearm. Even though he is covered in dark gear from head to toe, he can see the tattooed tally marks in his mind’s eye as clearly as if he is looking at them directly, as if they are branded into his mind as permanently as on his pale skin. _Nine,_ he thinks. _Nine tally marks. Nine kills. Nine lives taken. Soon to be ten._

The boy shakes his head of the bitter thoughts. He had put down the gnawing guilt a long time ago. In his line of work, you have to, if you value your sanity and peace of mind.

He grabs the last item necessary for tonight’s mission: the poison dart. It’s arguably the most important one. He slides into a small loop in his enhancement brace on his right arm, where it fits snugly. Not wanting to be swallowed in guilt and bitterness again, he calls out to his partner: “Avon, are you ready?”

The question is entirely irrelevant. The boy can hear his partner still fastening his share of equipment for tonight; can hear his even breathing and heartbeat with his superhuman senses, even from the bathroom in the hotel. They had paid for a night’s stay in the local hotel in Superior sector so they could get ready for the assignment. The reason the boy asked to be alone was the same reason why he wanted his partner for a distraction: his thoughts. The boy avoided being pensive at all costs, but sometimes he needed to rein his wandering mind in, and he preferred to do that without his personal space being invaded; his partner understood that he did not like to divulge his feelings, and therefore had given him a wide berth.

To avoid the same thought-relapse occurring again, the boy focuses on the interior of the room. As typical for a Superior hotel, everything is the height of comfort and luxury. The bedroom is furnished with two matching, separate beds covered with beige, crisp, cotton quilts; he is sitting on the one closest to the floor-to-ceiling windows, which he is currently facing, the skyline of New York shining in all its midnight glory. The walls in the bedroom are a bright, and in his opinion, intrusive green decorated with abstract glass and porcelain figures, which rest on lacquered mahogany shelves. The door, made of the same mahogany is to his back, and there he can sense Avon’s gaze leaning against the door frame, waiting.

“You coming, Nova, or what?” he queries, nagging plain in the cadences of his voice.

The sound of his name is enough to jolt Nova out of his thoughts. He stands up fluidly and walks past Avon into the hallway leading up to the door, which is painted the same green as the bedroom. Across from the bedroom door is the bathroom, where Avon was patiently giving Nova the time he needed. But now he’s restless for the assignment, the only thing which gives him redemption from his guilt, even if it increases it at the same time, much like an addict taking a drug for fleeting relief, even though it brings him closer to death every time he does it. Before he reaches the door, Avon grabs him and turns him around so that they stand face to face.

 _Everything okay in that head of yours?_ Nova hears the thought inside his head as if it was his own, but the voice and diction are clearly Avon’s. He remembers the first time they communicated telepathically after the chips had been implanted in their brains. It had felt so novel that they had communicated like that for a long time. It was a way to ensure privacy between them, even when they were not alone. The primary purpose, of course, was to increase stealth during missions, and to allow them to access the databases and the internet effortlessly and at a moment’s notice. Nevertheless, the partners had taken advantage of the chips and had made telepathic communication a way to convey meaningfulness. That Avon had resorted to telepathy signaled that he was worried for Nova, which was both infuriating and endearing at the same time.

 _I’m fine,_ Nova lies effortlessly. He’s done it so often, so many times, that he’s beyond hoping it will convince Avon that he actually _is_ fine. At least it’s enough to placate him, if only for awhile. He shakes off Avon’s hands on his shoulders and turns to open the door, ready to get this night over with.

҉ 

The minute Nova and Avon leave the building, the drought that has been going on for three weeks makes itself known. The summer air is particularly dry as they take the path to the luxurious apartment block where their target, the Vice Chancellor himself, resides. The countless lights of New York reflect off the glass paneling, momentarily blinding Nova. He glances at Avon and notices him tapping at the control on his left wrist, enabling the camouflage mode. Nova does the same before they get spotted. The effect is instant: his gear, as does Avon’s, fades into a nondescript color that matches everything around them: the gravel path through the park, leading to the high-rise, the trees in said park, the lights, even the pedestrians. They are now essentially invisible.

A cautious smile plays at Nova’s lips. Finally, something to distract him from the emptiness he feels inside. Without wasting any more time, he begins to move toward the high rise, Avon moving to lead in front of him.

As they maneuver the path to the building, Nova staring at Avon’s brown hair, he can’t help but think about his partner. Is this new life affecting him as much as Nova and he just doesn’t let it show? Or is he truly embracing his fate? Does he think about his family? Nova knows that the thought of his life before Faceless, before the Chancellor’s personnel whisked him away from his home, brings an acute sting to his chest. The image of Scarlett, cowering, comes unbidden, along with Darrion’s hunched, bleeding form and Clementine’s innocent round face gazing at him openly with the same sea- green eyes that he inherited from his mother. Being born an Inferior had been hard enough, but dealing with an abusive father had led to living the worst life Nova could imagine.

He had been wrong. The life he’s living now is ten times worse.

Before his bitter train of thought can continue, Nova is stopped short by the door of the high rise. Avon is already picking at the lock in the door; when that’s done he swiftly turns his attention to the security panel on the inside, and after a few minutes of fiddling with the wires they both slip into the lobby, as though they are ghosts. Nova immediately notices the air ventilation and helps Avon onto his shoulders so that he can undo the latch. Avon soon climbs into the ventilation and offers a hand for Nova. He grabs it with his right hand and the enhancement brace on his arm kicks into action as it magnifies his already enhanced strength, easing the process of climbing into the ventilation. Now in the ventilation, using the chip, Nova pulls up the map of the shaft’s route through the building, pleased to find that it passes through the Vice Chancellor’s residence. Nova readies his poise as they shimmy their way through the ventilation. The last thing he needs is to commit an oversight tonight. Not on an assignment this important.

In the stuffiness, Avon’s frantic heartbeat makes itself more noticeable than usual, as do his shallow breaths. Perhaps doing this _is_ as unnerving for Avon as it is for him.

The map indicates that they've crossed into the Vice Chancellor’s penthouse. At the closest juncture Avon undoes the latch and lands soundlessly below, Nova following. The penthouse is huge, yet similar to the hotel room. They stand in what seems to be the living room, the center of which is dominated by a huge plush couch which is flanked by two armchairs on each side, an ottoman next to each of them. A plush rug lies beneath them. The walls must be a fair color, hung with different paintings depicting landscapes, though more than that is impossible to discern in the dim lighting, even with Nova’s above-average eyesight. As his gaze sweeps upward, he sees the high ceiling and the diamond chandelier hanging down, particularly controversial with the modern furniture everywhere else. A curving staircase takes up the far side of the room, where the windows open out to the balcony, letting the moonlight and artificial lights outline all the furniture and Avon in flashes of silver and bursts of flickering neons.

 _He’s up the stairs, right?_ Nova inquires, speaking for the first time since they left the hotel. The somberness of the moment seems to be weighing them down. 

 _Yeah,_ Avon answers.

Nova starts walking toward the steps, not minding his steps; he is noiseless no matter what. He had been for years, because of Faceless, the organization he is a part of. When he reaches the landing, he goes for the only door, the one where the Vice Chancellor is most probably sleeping. Knowing that Avon is following, Nova turns the bolt on the door and swings it open. He immediately pulls the poison dart from its place and readies his arm while slowly approaching the Vice Chancellor, whose snores pierce the silence at steady intervals.

 _Not for long,_ Nova thinks grimly and plunges it into the carotid vein standing out on the Vice Chancellor’s fat neck. His eyes fly open and he begins to draw breaths in rapid succession, before he finally stills, dead.

Nova stares at the Chancellor’s prone body, at his blank, lifeless eyes, and suddenly all he can see is his mother’s face, right after she’d died, her body eerily motionless, calling out, but receiving no answer, being pulled away by his father and backhanded across his cheek, the force of the blow knocking him on the floor—

Dimly, he registers the impact with the ground, Avon rushing to help him, being wrapped in his arms, and words whispered in his mind, until, after what seems like forever, his breathing evens out, and the shock wears away.

 _I’m sorry,_ he says automatically. _I—_

 _Don’t,_ Avon says. _Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. I won’t tell anyone else, especially not Rowana. You know that. You may be expendable to Faceless, but not to me._ Avon releases his grip on Nova and their eyes met, Avon’s brown to his sea-green. _Remember when we were paired together, and or names were changed? I hated the fact that they were interfering in my life, that they had the nerve to not only separate me from my family, but erase my former identity and remake me into a monster that does their bidding. But, horrible as it is, this life gave me you as a friend to lean on, a partner with whom I can share my burden. I want you to lean on me when you need to, no matter how often, okay?_ Nova looks at Avon and thinks of all the times they had been there for each other. The first time they endured the experiments on them, or that time when Nova had been caught in possession of his only toy from his childhood – a small soldier. Avon had stood up for him when he had been caught and had claimed that he had given it to him. That night Nova had fallen asleep listening to Avon’s screams; the sound had kept him up all night, though Rowana, their instructor, had seemed interested in how long he would endure before fainting from the pain of the punishment.

 _All right,_ Nova concedes. _I’ll lean on you._

Avon’s lips break into a hesitant grin. _Good.Now let’s get out of this hellhole._

_**~The End~** _

**Author's Note:**

> Well . . . first off, I'd like to thank you for bothering to read original works. If you would please leave kudos (only if you liked the story, of course!) and comments; they's make my day. Constructive criticism is especially appreciated, particularly towards my dialogues.  
> This story was initially written as an assignment for my grammar class, but I decided to post it here for kicks and see how people responded. I also hope that it's not painfully obvious that I've never been to New York, and the only knowledge I have of it is from treading novels.  
> Finally, let me know if you'd like a continuation. I have a lot of ideas concerning this idea of mine, but I won't expand unless people show enough interest.  
> ~APF


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